Outside a bird twittered monotonously—some house sparrow bent upon disturbing the peace of the swallows, migrants whom he regarded as trespassers.
“Damn that sparrow!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey.
He sat upright; the sanguine colour flowed back into his clean-shaven cheeks. Perhaps the consoling reflection stole into his mind that matters might be worse: the boy might have married the Parson’s daughter secretly. He said testily to Fishpingle:
“Don’t gape at me like that! Keep your pity for those who may need it.”
Fishpingle obeyed. His face slowly hardened into the impassive mask of the well-trained servant. The Squire continued less testily but with reproachful mockery:
“So you, you, the man I have trusted for fifty years, were chosen by my son to plead a cause which he hadn’t the pluck to plead for himself.”
“Nothing was settled about that, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Tchah! He went to you, not to his mother—I lay my life on it—nor to me. Why? Because, obviously, you were on his side, siding, b’ Jove! against—me.”
“I side with Master Lionel, Sir Geoffrey.”
“That’s honest, at any rate. We know where we are. Now, Ben, you shall plead his case in his absence. I will listen as patiently as may be. Begin!” Fishpingle opened his lips and closed them. “Ha! You are silent because there is nothing to say.”